Knowing is not Everything
by MiiYuKira
Summary: A series of ficlets that may explain characters and their motivations in the Perspective canon. Can be read with no knowledge of the series. Rated M for later chapters and themes.
1. Pascal's Piece

A/N: So this series will be a set of ficlets that might help explain the things that go unexplained in the main story, which will provide everyone with a clearer vision of what lies behind some characters' motivations. So, I'll begin with Pascal, because I think he puzzles people more. (Also, because I'm too excited for this to wait until I've collated all the characters) Each chapter can be read on its own, with as little reference to Perspective as I can manage. If you want to see something or someone explained in this set, please let me know? I'll do my best to write them all :D

* * *

**Pascal's Piece**

He watched them go by, _again_, bringing in the tranquil who were in charge of purchasing goods from the market, their armor and helms gleaming in the light of the midday sun, keeping in stride with the robed mages. Clad in the same, _he_ knew, was the man who was to be his mentor. Everyone knew him; Hugues was a tall man with intense eyes, a derisive gaze and dark humored person—who terrified all the other recruits with alarming success. Ser Hugues. The same man who had brought him to the Chantry ten years hence, having saved him from his village, before it fell prey to a single mage's corruption, which caused the whole settlement to burn, leaving nothing but ashes.

Pascal knew that he had to try and meet the man's gaze, before they were formally introduced as teacher and student in the coming days. He had heard rumors, but was certain that Ser Hugues was not as fierce as everyone said he was. The man was just stern, as per the teachings, no doubt caused by his continued posting in the White Spiral. Vigilance was key in their line of duty, ever-watchful in the presence of their corruptible wards.

"Pascal, stop gawking—we have to go," muttered one of the other recruits. The youth tore his eyes from the spot where the templar last stood, to find his fellows already leaving the main courtyard, into the training area, where they would engage in swordfights— working on that skill despite the fact that their future charges were men and women likely to be more skilled in fleeing than fighting their pursuers.

He sighed, and followed—his light-coloured hair glinting in the sunlight. This was not a favorite part of his daily routine.

The men waiting in the bare dirt yard were all stripped down to shirts and leathers—armed with a sharp-edged blade and a wooden shield. Sparring was on the agenda, evidently.

The only thing Pascal was good at was evading. His sword arm wasn't strong enough to stagger his opponent—the dreaded Constantin, his shield arm not strong enough to withstand the blows that rained down quite so rapidly, losing that wooden implement within the first five minutes. He sidestepped between the man's strikes, seeing the path of the steel clearly before it cleaved into his own flesh.

His feet moved, though evidently not fast enough, for soon, as his opponent grew tired at swinging the steel blade through the suddenly unoccupied space— and wood _thunked_ on wood—Pascal felt himself forced to the ground, unable to bear the weight of that unexpected bash.

He barely rolled away in time, dropping the shield in his haste. Constantin glared fiercely as he relieved himself of the same burden, and charged, blade-first, at Pascal. No time to think, the youth dodged, and his own sword glanced the side of the other recruit, drawing a large spill of blood which stained the dirt black, the first injury of the day.

"Get him to the infirmary!" The sword master yelled at the nearby recruits, who had stared on in shock. For Constantin to have been bested—that was in itself, impressive. It was still more astonishing that the usually meek boy to have actually won a spar. Pascal was the absolute worst when it came to close-quarters combat.

This was the reason why Pascal tried not to look too triumphant, for both he and his opponent knew that everything that happened was a piece of luck, and not a result of skill.

Still, because of this, everyone was given the rest of the day free from the practice, free to peruse more tomes of dust and lore in the Grand Library. Pascal emerged a hero for this feat—but as the crowd of grateful boys surrounded him, a slow clap was heard, the sound coming from the templar who had been watching from the second storey window. It was Ser Hugues. The throng immediately scattered, hoping to avoid a harsh berating.

The youth blushed fiercely, trying to look nonchalant, despite this burning face. He tried not to bow like an idiot, and managed a half-nod, pulling back brusquely. Hugues continued, removing his helm as he leaned out the window. "Nice work— though I suspect that another set of weapons might suit you better."

Pascal felt a stab as that gaze pierced through him, flaming with a blaze of darkness— a path to the abyss that had formed in those eyes. He swallowed as his own countenance darkened, tearing his own eyes from the man's with immense difficulty. He must seem a right fool, rendered mute in this good-looking man's address of himself.

But still that voice haunted him, so deep and masculine that it thrummed in Pascal's skin. "Perhaps a crossbow— _yes_, I shall commission one for _you_." The half-smile appeared, almost in whimsy.

He fled. He could not stand it, even though he had to. A week before he would be trained personally by the man. A week for him to think. Something in him had been stroked awake by that voice, that demeanor, that hypnotic gaze—and he feared. He feared that he would lose himself. Pascal feared that he would be consumed by the midnight-black, the grotesque attraction that he saw in Ser Hugues.

_Desire_. This—he feared.

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P.S.: Ah, I forgot to include a disclaimer. These might change your initial thoughts about the characters in Perspective, so… read at your own risk—not everyone who's a villain is evil through and through! Thanks for reading :D

Next up, Lazarus!


	2. Lazarus's Revival

A/N: So this is Lazarus—whose (partial) story I borrowed from the Lazarus of Bethany.

Note: I am not religious, so I apologise if anyone finds this offensive. In all honesty, I did not mean for this to be disrespectful towards your beliefs. This is just a story.

So that being said, I hope this explains some of your questions about Lazarus. Not _all_, but some—I believe that a story should always have gaps that should be filled by the readers' thoughts and conclusions. It's interactive? I think.

Written for Jaden—who I owe this to :D

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**Lazarus's Revival**

It was curious, the way we ended up, the sighs we shared in the darkened corners of the central Tower that housed the full-fledged mages. She was young, so was I—and both of us knew full well what would happen if we were found… so compromised. But the passion I felt for her, burned beyond anything the Order tried to instill in us—_Andraste's grace_—and I was certain that I loved her.

And later—the events that would come to pass did, in time.

xOxOx

The pair ran, separated from the templars—into the hinterlands, where the trees were barren and the ground was either perennially split and cracked, or filled with mudtraps that swallowed creatures into its depths. They weren't sure how far they were, but were almost certain that they'd be caught—her phylactery linked them to the oppression.

He was bleeding out—she was sure of it—though he grinned and tried not to let her near the wound. And when he finally collapsed, feet too heavy to continue further, she tore his armor off, demanding a look at the wound.

He was too weak to fight her, and Mariá worked, mending the large rips the bandits had made, those men stupid enough to challenge a mage and her escorting templar.

But the wounds were numerous, and she could barely see through the tears, welling up in her eyes.

"Don't fail on me now—_you can't_—you idiot," she panted, feeling her mana reserves draining to an all-time low.

"Are you talking to me? Or do you mean your lovely self?" He chuckled, before abruptly coughing a wet splatter into a gauntleted hand, staining the silver a deep red. He cleaned this hastily on the ground, while she pretended not to see. He was always one for the stupid, _manly_ gestures.

"Both. But you—_you_ better stay conscious." She was biting her lower lip, trying not to cry. This ridiculous man who just told her to run from the Circle. And where would she go? Live in the hinterlands like the nomads? Or be eaten by darkspawn?

He had promised that they would be together at last—and this was where they ended up? Out in the marsh? If they lived through this, she was going to kill him.

She was once the daughter of a very rich man.

A man who had paid for her passage into the luxurious life of a well-kept mage.

This came with conditions— that she would not reproduce. That she would not stain his family line further by adding more mages with claim in their blood. This rule— she had broken, quite promptly.

And he—a poor man's son, sent to the Chantry to support his burgeoning family. In the end, all they had left was each other. A mage, and a templar, finding solace where most others only saw revulsion. She would not let him leave her now, not when he was all she had left. She would not raise the child alone.

xOxOx

Watching the woman bent over the numerous gashes on his chest, he came to a decision. He would survive, for her sake. To the Void with everything else, he was going to live with her, in a village somewhere. They were going to have so many children—who would have her enthralling eyes, his dashing smile—all wonderful and charming.

"_Don't fall asleep."_

He nodded vaguely. Of course he wouldn't. Who could—out here in the hinterlands. One had to look out for darkspawn.

And yet, his eyelids felt heavy. He jerked his head, forcing his mind to focus. She told him to stay awake, and he would. He would do anything for her—and this was _easy_, compared to the eloping thing they were attempting. So simple. Definitely, the least he could do. He had to focus, and remember that he had to keep his eyes on her. Like at the Tower. Ugh. That sounded creepy. But it was true. He was assigned to the healers, on the account of his immense likeablity, and made many friends among the mages. At least, he knew when they absconded with the liquor, every alcove they disappeared to for hours on end. Everyone else would lie for them, knowing that in time, it would be their turn. This was actually how he met Mariá—she refused all advances, preferring to remain on duty. With him.

"_You'll be fine."_

She was wary at first, but then, she had reasons for that. She was a mage, and he a templar—a forbidden coupling. But she was the first he had—yes he was a virgin.

"_I'm the best healer at the Circle—"_

He heard a quick intake of breath. Something had surprised her, just like…

Oh how she laughed when she knew—their first night together. The night of that mass poisoning in the Palace, where every single healer had been called out. All of them, except her. They were, for the first time, alone. He remembered stroking her long dark hair after… Whispering her name, after months of stealing furtive kisses and hurried touches—he was with a woman he loved. Ardently. Perhaps she wouldn't mind him closing his eyes…just a little. He was still listening to her voice. Strange that she should sound so… worried. Everything was going to be fine.

"_Please, stay with me."_

The sound of footfalls was getting nearer.

xOxOx

They had scheduled his body for a fire, but barely anyone had any time to commit—and for four days he was left, slumped in a corner of the shed. No prayers were said for him—those who knew the truth— that he had not gone after Mariá in order to bring her back. Still more thought that he was too good for them, that he made them all look bad. None of them wanted to be seen with him. Few mourned. He was a poor man's son—and had fewer friends than coins among the elitist Order.

Mariá knew that she had to see him—just to yell at him, for not holding on. For making her feel ineffectual. For sticking her with child, and then escaping in such a manner.

Most of all, she wanted to see him, to commit his face to memory, before decay and the sacred fires took him.

_Just one more look._

The mages—her own tutor—had declared her pregnant, thus staying their heavy hand towards runaways, and she was locked up in a cell, barely restrained beyond the chains that did nothing more than bound her hands.

Perhaps they assumed that she would just give in, being both pregnant and having lost her protector—but she knew the change of guards. Countless times she had been guided down the steps into the templar dungeons, and when the two on duty left to 'share a bottle of ale' around dawn. It wasn't unheard of for such to happen among the templars. Men who had taken vows had to find _succor_ somehow.

She had it timed carefully. A silent frost spell at the lock made a key, and her rapid fingers freed herself in seconds. This was what she was named for. Mariá—her grandmother, was a rebel. Obstinate and a firebrand, and she knew she took after the woman, though no rebellions would she lead—she only had her mind set on one goal. _Him_.

Mariá snuck out of the keep, carefully inching to the shed at the far southwestern corner of the grounds. And there he was. Laid out in the open, stripped of his platemail, dressed in his underclothes. He was to burn, it seemed—when the sun appeared on the horizon. She covered him with the cloak they had allowed her when she complained of the cold.

Carrying him inside the shed, Mariá breathed fire into her cupped hands. Perhaps this was how they would find her, keeping a silent vigil, next to him. Her love.

She wondered if she should set the place ablaze, if only so the two of them would be together, forever. But it was nonsense. There was still the child. Their baby boy—this, she was sure of—and who would be given to the Chantry as soon as he drew breath to scream.

She must have dozed off, and was woken up rather rudely by the groundskeeper, who dragged her out of the shed—unheeding her pleas to remain by _his_ side.

xOxOx

Crying his name—_Lazarus_—stirred something. He arose, and stormed out of the wooden room, bleary and confused, but hearing that voice. The wind wrapped round him, and he glared at the man who had a hold of his Mariá. This man fell, as did his lantern, and the fire sparked by the spilling of the oil flamed up high.

Lazarus had reached her, and she had been crying. He frowned, turning to the man again. The coward had fainted dead away—and Mariá chose that moment to pounce on him, her weight… quite considerable for a man who had no food or water for days.

Still, he caught her, and they stumbled back to the templars' keep, laughter mixed with tears.

Let them try to explain this miracle as a blessing of their precious Maker.

xOxOx

Years later, my son Vincentio also joined the Order.

He had a reason for that—his younger sister was a mage. But that's another tale altogether.

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P.S.: Please let me know if you liked it? Thanks! :D


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